Dying for Love
by John Douglas
Summary: MIDSOMER MURDERS - Cully returns to Midsomer to direct a play at the Causton Playhouse, but are the amateur actors involved in the disappearance of a 19-year old girl whose body is found in a large black bin liner, dumped in a waste container outside a pub in Morton Fendle? Tom Barnaby and Ben Jones investigate.
1. Chapter 1

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**Dying for Love**

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_by John Douglas_

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**Author's Disclaimer : **_Characters and places portrayed in this story that appear in episodes of 'Midsomer Murders' and/or in novels by Caroline Graham are the property of their respective copyright holders. I assert copyright of such characters, scenes and situations as are my original creation. This story is written purely for enjoyment and not for profit._

**Acknowledgements : **_I am indebted to my good friend 'Bo Georgeson', a fellow Midsomer Murders fan, who kindly proof-read this story for me and made several invaluable suggestions, which have much improved my story. Don't forget to read his own Midsomer Murders masterpieces also __―__ search for him by author name [Bo Georgeson] on this site (or type /u/2540096/ immediately after typing the name of this site to see his profile)._

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**Chapter One**

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"This is marvellous!" said Joyce Barnaby, putting down a casserole dish in the middle of the table. "All three of us together, like the old days!"

"How is Simon, by the way?" asked Tom innocently.

"Tom!" Joyce gave him a disapproving look, because she feared that her daughter's marriage might be on the rocks.

"He's in Indonesia," said Cully. "That's why he's not here." Cully, now in her early thirties, was sporting short-cropped auburn hair and a yellow-and-black roll-neck sweater, which made her look rather like a wasp.

"Ah." Tom Barnaby seized the bottle of _Corbi__ères _and topped up Cully's glass. "That explains it." Joyce glared at him.

"Actually, he's on tour with a very up-and-coming rock band," said Cully. "_Close Quarters_. Though of course you wouldn't have heard of them."

"But the up-and-coming director at the Causton Playhouse is none other than... Cully Dixon!" exclaimed Tom.

"Yes, isn't it wonderful?" asked Joyce. The Causton Playhouse, which had been struggling financially for a number of years, had recently been revived by a large injection of cash from a previously unknown patron. "Cully's directing the new play by Victor Hugo, and I'm doing the costumes!"

"How is it new?" asked Tom Barnaby, who had taken the lid off the casserole and was helping himself to the stew of unknown properties, "I thought Victor Hugo died some time ago."

"It's in a brilliant new translation, Dad," said Cully. "It's called _'Le Roi s'Amuse'_, or 'The King's Fool' in English."

"I'm glad it's in English," said Tom.

"We've started on rehearsals already," said Joyce. "And Cully always knows exactly where people should be on stage at any moment. She really is good, Tom. You should see her at work."

"And I hope to," said Tom, "so long as my duties allow."

"Of course they allow!" said Joyce. "You're not on any case at the moment, are you?"

Tom had to admit that he was not.

"Well then. Though I have to say, the sixteenth century costumes are a bit of a problem. I think we can manage something like it, though. Amy Parkhurst has been a tremendous help."

"Who is Amy Parkhurst?" asked Tom blandly.

"Amy Parkhurst ― you know, my great friend at the Women's Institute!" said Joyce.

"Oh, that Amy Parkhurst," said Tom, none the wiser.

"She owns _Holly's _in Causton ― the shop that sells period costumes for fancy dress parties ― she's ever so knowledgeable about these things."

"And she's also a character in the play," said Cully. "Madame de Cossé ― an aristocrat."

"But she's not like that in real life," said Joyce. "She's very down-to-earth. She and I often have very good heart-to-hearts. Her father was a butcher," she added.

"And does she have an important part in this play?" asked Tom, who had taken several spoonfuls of the casserole dish and was still uncertain as to its ingredients.

"N-not really," said Joyce. "Her daughter is the heroine, though."

"Avril," said Cully. "I really think she should become a professional actress."

"She dies in the end, though," said Joyce. "She sacrifices herself for love ― to save her lover, who is a scoundrel."

"Oh, dear," said Tom, "it sounds too much like real life."

…

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…

"Barnaby." Tom was still in bed, though he had woken up some time before. He glanced at the alarm clock. A quarter to eight. "I'll be right over." He put the mobile down.

To Joyce's exasperation he only drank half a cup of coffee before dashing out of the house. "Sorry, Joyce, I've got to go," he said as he left.

Dan and Ted, in their bright yellow hi-visibility jackets, were patiently waiting for the police outside The Queen's Head in Morton Fendle, having parked their refuse collection lorry in the pub car park. George Bullard, the forensic pathologist, was already there when Tom Barnaby drew up and appeared to be interested in a large black bin liner which was propped up against the wall of the pub.

"Hallo, Tom," he said cheerily, "this is a new one on me!" Now Tom could see that the black bin liner contained the body of a young woman, though only her head was visible at first. George expertly drew the black bin liner down to the ground. "Not bad looking, is she?"

"Oh, George, cover her up again!" said Tom, for the young lady ― and she must have been no more than twenty ― was completely naked except for a semi-transparent negligée.

George grunted and obliged, though he returned to a more thorough examination of the body as soon as Tom had turned his attention to the refuse collectors.

"Good morning, gents," said Tom, approaching Dan and Ted, who were rather similar to look at, being about thirty and of muscular build, "I take it that you telephoned the police."

"We did," said Dan. "I'm Dan, by the way. And this is Ted."

"That's right," said Ted. "It's lucky we didn't put her through the shredder."

"Would have been an awful mess, then," said Dan. "She might have got jammed in the machine."

"People put out the weirdest things," said Ted, "but a human body ― that's got to be a first."

"And where did you find her, exactly?" asked Tom.

"In that bin," said Dan, waving towards a large commercial bin on wheels standing to the side of the pub. "Every Monday and Friday, that's the deal," he said.

"Have you ever found anything... unusual put out before by this pub?"

Ted shook his head. "Just bottles, mostly. Landlord's called Josh. He doesn't live here, though, and he won't be here till eleven o'clock to open up. I drink here sometimes," he confided.

Tom satisfied himself that the bin was now completely empty. "Well, George?" He joined the pathologist, who was searching the corpse with his latex-gloved hands.

"I can't find anything on her," he said. "I think it's a case of missing persons."

"And what about―"

"The time of death? She's as stiff as a board. Must be some time ago. We'll have to do some tests on her. No obvious sign as to how she died, either."

"Do you think we could go now, gov?" asked Dan, who had approached. "Only, we've got a round to finish."

"Yes, yes, of course," said Barnaby, "but please could you give me your contact details first? We might have some further questions."

…

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…

Detective Sergeant Ben Jones, who had been detailed by Barnaby to interview the landlord of The Queen's Head, returned to Causton police station at about eleven thirty. "Nothing," he said morosely. "Josh swears he knows nothing about it. He says the last time he put bottles out was a couple of days ago, on Wednesday, and there definitely wasn't a large black bin liner, full of something body-shaped, in it then."

"Do you believe him?" asked Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby.

"Yes, sir, I do." Jones sounded annoyed, as though his own integrity was being questioned. "In fact he looked at me the whole time as if he didn't believe a word of what _I _was saying."

"Well, it is rather a tall story," said Tom. "And still no missing persons?"

"There have been no reports of persons missing in the Midsomer area for more than six months," said Jones. "There was a report of a cat gone missing a week ago, but it was found up a tree."

PC Robson tapped on the door of the CID office and entered. "Excuse me, sir, but I thought you might like to know that a gentleman has just come into the station to report his daughter missing," he said.

"Who? When?" barked Barnaby, suddenly sitting bolt upright.

"Just now, sir ― he left a minute or two ago. But I've got all the details, sir," said PC Robson, taken aback by his superior's tone.

"Damn!" said Barnaby. "Well, what are the details?"

PC Robson cleared his throat and read from the clipboard he was holding.

"A Mr Martin Wrigley, aged fifty-four, of 12 Apple Blossom Crescent, Morton Fendle, says that his daughter, Gillian Wrigley, nineteen, unmarried, still living at home, disappeared one week ago."

"One week ago," interjected Ben, "isn't that rather a long time to leave some-one missing?"

"Perhaps; perhaps not," said Tom. "Robson, what is the description of this girl?"

"Medium height, blonde hair, no distinguishing features," said Robson. "But he added that she was very good-looking."

"Thank you, Robson," said Tom in a kinder voice. "Well, I suppose I must go back there, but first I am going to The Playhouse to have a bite to eat and meet my wife and daughter. Jones, would two o'clock sharp suit you?"

Jones knew that there was no way that two o'clock sharp would not suit him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

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"Tom!" Joyce had spied her husband from across the crowded cafeteria of The Playhouse. The Playhouse cafeteria was the sort of place where office workers and local shoppers came to have a cheap lunch, as well as the arty people who, however, were more in evidence when a rehearsal was due. Tom could see that Joyce was accompanied by a large middle-aged woman with bright blue hair permed into ringlets. "Come and meet Amy Parkhurst!"

Having each collected a dish of the day, which was spaghetti bolognese, and a cup of tea and a roll, the three of them sat down at a vacant table.

"You're a detective with the CID!" said Amy, beaming at Tom.

"Well ― yes, I do the odd investigation," admitted Tom guardedly.

"He solves murders like there's no tomorrow!" said Joyce. "He's a wizard, Amy. But at the moment he isn't on a case."

"Um... actually, I am," said Tom. Joyce looked decidedly displeased. "Something's just come up."

"How thrilling!" said Amy. "Can you let us in on any of the details?"

Tom was saved from having to answer at this point because Cully, carrying a large file with 'Director's Notes' on the front under her arm, now joined them at the table with her tray of spaghetti bolognese. "Hi, Dad," she said, "how's it going?"

"Your father's just been telling me," said Amy, her eyes shining, "that he's on a new case."

"Actually it isn't that clear what's happened," said Tom, feeling very uncomfortable, "but I can tell you that a young girl has disappeared."

"Oh, good heavens, who is it?" Amy was in her element.

"Um... a certain Gillian Wrigley," he said.

"Gillian Wrigley? She's the daughter of Martin Wrigley!" said Joyce. "He's our Triboulet, the main character!"

"I know him well," said Amy. "Oh, poor man! He's had such bad luck in his life ― losing his wife at such a young age, and now this! I wonder why she's disappeared? He'll be on stage for rehearsal this evening."

"I thought you said that Amy's daughter was the lead role," said Tom to Joyce.

"She's not the lead role, she's the _heroine_," said Joyce. "Her father in the play is Martin Wrigley."

"She does have an important part," said Amy, "and Cully's always been very supportive of her."

"I know what it's like, being a struggling actress," said Cully with some feeling, "and yes, I really do think she should apply for drama college, Amy."

"What is she doing at the moment?" ventured Tom, who of course was itching to get away and interview Martin Wrigley.

"Oh, odd jobs here and there," said Amy. "She and Gillian are friends ― they were at school together."

"Really?" said Tom, who had finished his spaghetti bolognese in double quick time. He looked at his watch. "Well, if you ladies will excuse me..."

"Oh, Tom," said Joyce, who had not nearly finished her meal, "you've only just arrived!"

"Yes, but in my line of work..."

"Goodbye, Mr Barnaby," said Amy, "and perhaps we will see you at this evening's rehearsal?"

"Perhaps you will," said Tom, who stood up and, having kissed wife and daughter on the cheek, and waved non-committally to Amy, beat a hasty retreat.

…

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…

George Bullard drew back the sheet as far as the neck of the corpse lying on the stainless steel slab in the mortuary and looked up at Martin Wrigley. The girl on the slab looked as though she was merely asleep, perhaps like Sleeping Beauty waiting for her prince to kiss her awake. Martin Wrigley nodded mutely and turned away. George Bullard drew the sheet back over her face so that Sleeping Beauty could continue sleeping undisturbed.

Tom Barnaby put his arm round Martin's shoulders, for he was shaking with silent sobs, sobs that for the moment he was not allowing to break out of his mouth. His face was lined and his cheeks were gaunt, and Tom thought how much older than his fifty-four years he looked. He slowly accompanied him outside with a whispered "Thank you, George," over his shoulder, to where Ben Jones was waiting to take him back home. Tom followed in his own comfortable black Volvo.

12 Apple Blossom Crescent was a picturesque cottage, much like all the other cottages in the crescent, with a small garden at the rear containing, appropriately, a mature apple tree, which was full of blossom in the early April sunshine. Martin Wrigley, who had not given vent to his emotions throughout the short journey from Causton, led the way into the diminutive but well-furnished sitting-room of his little house.

"Please ― take a seat, gentlemen," he said, as first Ben Jones and then Tom Barnaby filed in. Tom looked out of the picture window at the back of the sitting-room, noticing that the cottage had at some point been extended by the addition of a conservatory, which was mostly taken up with a fine castor oil plant, about the size of a Christmas tree, in a large pot.

"I am most terribly sorry for your loss," began Barnaby, "but I hope, Mr Wrigley, that you will feel up to answering a few questions...?"

"Of course," said Martin, swallowing hard, "I want to know what happened as much as you do. In fact, more," and he gave a wan smile as he sat down on a satin-covered Queen Anne chair.

"I understand that you reported your daughter as missing this morning, at about eleven thirty, and that you told the officer on duty that she had been missing for a week?"

Martin nodded and took a deep breath. "That's right," he said. "My daughter had said that she was going away on holiday ― somewhere in the Caribbean ― last Thursday for a week. She was due back home yesterday."

"The Caribbean?" asked Ben Jones. "Could she afford that? Or were you paying for her holiday, sir?"

"Oh, no," said Martin, "I could never afford that and nor could she. The fact is that she was going away with some-one else ― a wealthy admirer."

"I see," said Tom and continued after a short pause, "would it be too much to ask who this wealthy admirer is?"

Martin shifted uneasily in his chair. "A certain Francis Cavour," he said with evident distaste. "He's almost as old as I am, but Gillian was besotted with him."

"And you didn't approve?" suggested Barnaby, but did not wait for an answer. "Have you been in touch with this Francis Cavour?"

Martin shook his head. "There are reasons, Inspector, why I would not want to contact him. But I contacted the airline yesterday evening and they confirmed that Gillian had not been on the flight, either there or back. St Lucia, it was."

"So she has been with Francis Cavour all this time, do you think? Please, Mr Wrigley, tell me more about him and why you did not want to contact him."

"Mr Cavour," began Martin, in what was for him clearly an unpleasant story, "was a cosmetic surgeon until he was struck off by the General Medical Council. There were scandals of him being involved with under-age girls, and though my daughter was nineteen, I did not think he was suitable for her. In fact, I begged her not to go away with him, but she was determined to go. I never contacted the man himself."

"Have you ever seen him?" asked Jones.

Martin shook his head again. "Only in the newspapers," he said. "The stories went on for a number of years."

"And does he live in Midsomer?" went on Jones.

"Somewhere," said Martin, "but I don't know his address. Of course my daughter did, so there might be something in the house."

"If we could perhaps look in her bedroom?" asked Barnaby.

"Go ahead," said Martin. "I'll just wait down here and think, if you don't mind."

Gillian's bedroom, which was still decorated with Peppa Pig wallpaper, was untidy, to say the least, though the bed was made. Barnaby rifled through piles of letters and notes on a little desk by the window, while Jones discovered an address book and a diary in a drawer.

"Aha!" said Jones. "Here we are... Francis, The Gables, Martyr Warren Road, Causton. 714-235. There's a mobile number too. And here in the diary... let me see. Thursday of last week... she's got the BA flight going out to St Lucia in the morning and..." (he turned over the page) "...returning at eight forty-five a.m. at Heathrow the following Thursday."

"Well, take that diary and the address book as evidence," said Barnaby. "No mobile phone?"

"I haven't come across one," said Jones. "Sir, doesn't it strike you as odd that a nineteen-year-old still lives in a room decorated with Peppa Pig wallpaper?"

"Yes, it does," said Tom, "and it strikes me as odd that she should still be living at home at all. Which reminds me, I must ask Martin what happened to his wife."

The two of them made their way downstairs again, after Ben had deposited diary and address book in plastic evidence bags which he carried in his pocket. They found Martin crying uncontrollably in the chair where they had left him, but with as little sound as possible. Ben coughed and Martin instantly controlled his grief.

"I'm so sorry," said Martin, attempting a smile through his tears, "it's only now really sinking in. Where was it you said you found her?"

"By the side of the road, propped up against the wall of a pub," said Tom, who felt that revealing the fact that she had been dumped in a waste container in a black bin liner was unnecessary. "The Queen's Head, in this village."

"Do you think that she collapsed there?" asked Martin, visibly shocked.

"We still don't know how she died, sir," said Tom kindly, "or when. But we'll let you know as soon as we can establish that. May I ask, sir ― that wallpaper in her bedroom ― isn't it a little childish for a young lady of Gillian's age?"

Martin smiled again, his tears now drying on his cheeks. "She was a bit young for her age in a lot of ways," he said. "She was beautiful ― beautiful..." and this time he did break out into a loud involuntary sob. "I tried to protect her... I tried to warn her...".

"It must have been difficult," suggested Tom, "without her mother being around."

"Oh, Lily, Lily!" Now he sighed, rather than sobbed, before continuing. "She died ten years ago. It was an operation that went wrong," he said. "She shouldn't have died."

"At Causton General Hospital?" enquired Ben.

Martin nodded. Tom signalled to Ben that it was too much of an intrusion into the bereaved man's grief to continue with this line of questioning and the two of them stood up.

"I am taking your daughter's diary and address book away with me to the police station, sir, as they may help us in our investigation," said Tom.

Martin nodded. "If you want any more details on my wife's death you could try asking Chad Hunt," he said.

"Who is... Chad Hunt, sir?"

"He is a doctor at the hospital ― he also knew Francis Cavour when he practised there," said Martin. "Of course, you could meet him tonight, if you come to our rehearsal at The Playhouse. He's one of the characters in the play, like me. It starts at seven o'clock."

"In that case, sir," began Tom, "I can only repeat how sorry I am―"

Martin waved them away with his right hand and then buried his face in both hands, evidently about to burst into sobs again. The two detectives let themselves out of the picturesque cottage quietly.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

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Tom and Ben found The Gables, Martyr Warren Road, easily enough. It looked rather like a ranch, set back some distance from the road, with imposing gates at the entrance controlled by an answerphone system. The answerphone produced no answer at all and when Tom tried the phone number he was obliged to leave a message, which he did, making it clear that it was the police and that it was urgent. Ben left a similar message on the mobile number.

"Sir!" Ben had been looking at the entries in Gillian's diary again and nearly caused Tom to swerve as they entered downtown Causton with his excited yelp. "There's an entry here for Wednesday ― the day before the flight to St Lucia."

"Well, I can't look at it now, I'm driving," said Tom crossly. "What does it say?"

"It says 'Francis, 6.30'," he said. "That's all. She must have been meeting him the day before the flight, not on Thursday."

"Hmm," said Tom. "Martin did not mention that. And there are several other people I'd like to meet at this rehearsal this evening."

"You're not really going, are you sir?" Ben looked sideways at Tom, who glanced back.

"Of course I am. I've got culture in my blood. What about you, Jones?"

"Naah," said Jones. "It's Hollyoaks for me."

"Jones!" Tom pretended to be shocked. "What you can do, while I prepare for my cultural evening, is go through any reports you can find on Francis Cavour. Try Google."

"Yes, sir," said Jones.

…

…

…

"You've come to spy on us, Dad!" said Cully, very upset. She would normally have been delighted that her father was coming to attend one of her rehearsals, but when she learned that he intended to install himself in a little side-room, off the green room, and not set foot in the auditorium, she let her feelings show. "This isn't the police station, you know."

"Cully, Cully, just for me ― and it will help with our enquiries."

"Is it murder, Dad?" Cully put her hands on her hips.

"There has been a suspicious death," said Tom.

"But what have they got to do with it? And why do you want to interview them, anyway?"

"Only one or two of them," said Tom, "and Amy as little as possible. It won't be an interview, really, I just want to chat to them. Please?" And he looked at her with such an innocent expression that Cully of course melted.

"Oh, alright, Dad, it wouldn't be the first time I've helped you out. But don't you go upsetting them ― they are proper theatrical people," she said as she led him to the little side-room, which was just big enough for a table and two chairs.

"Ooh, no, I wouldn't upset them," said Tom, "not proper theatrical people. What's the time now?"

"It's five to seven ― they'll be here any minute. Just... be good," she said as she bustled out.

In due course Tom could hear two or three voices, then four or five, until eventually there was quite a lot of animated conversation going on in the green room. Cully clapped her hands.

"This evening I want to go over the scene with the curse," she said. "It's such an important moment in the play that I feel we should take extra trouble over it. But first I have an announcement to make. As some of you know, my father is a detective with Causton CID' ― there were a few murmurs ― 'and he is at the moment investigating an unexplained death that took place in Midsomer only recently."

This was evidently news to the assembled company, as there were now a lot of 'Oohs!' and 'Aahs!' "Dad, would you come out and show yourself, please?" she called. This Tom did, buttoning his suit jacket as was his wont.

"Let me reassure you," said Tom, "that I do not intend to disrupt this evening's rehearsal. But if one or two of you wouldn't mind speaking to me, we might be able to solve this mystery a lot more quickly. I will only speak to you, of course, when Cully, who is doing such a wonderful production of... of..." (he had forgotten what it was called) "this play, tells me that you are free. I hope you won't have any objections?" He smiled at them all, turning his head from right to left. It was clear from the appreciative murmurs that there were no objections, and in fact that is exactly what Tom would have expected from the upright citizens of Midsomer County. As he looked at them, taking in Amy, with her bright blue hair, and even Joyce, who for some reason was hovering in the background, he noticed Martin Wrigley among them. "I am so glad," said Tom softly, approaching Martin, "that you felt able to come."

"A man's got to do what a man's got to do," said Martin stoically. All signs of tears were long gone from his weather-beaten face.

"Are you on stage now?" asked Tom.

"Well I am, if it's the curse scene," said Martin.

"Dad!" said Cully in a warning tone, walking over to him, "who exactly did you want to speak to?"

Tom consulted a short list he had prepared. "Um... a Dr Chad Hunt, ― Avril Parkhurst, ― I suppose, for a minute or two, her mother, and ― Martin Wrigley."

"I'll send them in one by one," said Cully, who knew better than to ask why her father might want to interview these people.

The first interviewee to walk into Tom's hideaway was Chad Hunt. Chad Hunt was a man of about forty, with fine features and jet black hair. He was well-proportioned and well-built, as if he had engaged in a lot of physical exercise when younger, with a pleasant expression and, as Tom discovered, an easy manner.

"What's up?" he asked as he sat down opposite Tom.

"As you may or may not know," said Tom, "this case concerns the death of Martin Wrigley's daughter, Gillian."

Chad clearly did not know, as he looked very shocked. "I had no idea," he said. "Poor Martin!"

"It appears that she was about to go on holiday with a certain Francis Cavour. We have tried to interview him, but so far cannot trace him. Do you happen to know him?"

Chad snorted. "Of course I know him, though I wish I didn't. He was a consultant at Causton General when I was a junior doctor there."

"Please," said Barnaby, "tell me a little more about him, if you don't mind."

"How much time have you got?" asked Chad. "The man's a disgrace. He goes for young girls ― most of them younger than Gillian. Some of them were under age."

"And when you say 'goes for them', do you mean that..." Tom deliberately left his question unfinished.

"There have been allegations of rape," said Chad, "but as far as I know none of them has ever been proved. That isn't why he was suspended."

"Why was he suspended, sir?"

"It was the P.I.P. scandal. Poly Implant Prothese. They were makers of silicone breast implants, and it has since been established that they were sub-standard."

"In what way were they sub-standard?"

"They leaked. Cavour was forever persuading women, some of them not much more than girls, to have these breast implants. Of course he did that privately, but a lot of his clients were people he had had to treat for other reasons in the Causton General, on the NHS. He could be quite persuasive."

"You mean... he deliberately induced young women to have breast implants, even if they did not need them?"

"Correct. That's what did for Lily, Martin Wrigley's wife. A lovely lady, she was."

"Tell me about her, sir."

Chad sighed. "She went to Cavour because she needed a skin-graft, or so I gather. Some minor blemish on her face. Anyway, she fell for Cavour in a big way and was ready to do anything he told her. He had that effect on people, Inspector."

"Go on." Tom was having a hard time keeping up with the flow of information from Chad, and had already covered one A4 sheet from the pad that he had brought with him with copious notes. He wished that Jones was at his side at this minute, instead of watching television at home.

"He persuaded her that she needed to have larger breasts. Totally ridiculous, because there was nothing wrong with her breasts ― I am speaking medically, of course."

"Of course, sir."

"Something went wrong with the operation and the wretched implants leaked. Then Lily got a blood infection and so it went on, going from bad to worse, until she finally died of complications because of this bungler. Martin was beside himself."

"How did you know Lily so well? If you were a junior doctor..."

"Oh, it wasn't through the hospital. I've known Martin's family for years ― we live in the same village. My children are of course younger than Gillian was, but we often had children's parties which she would come to."

"And... your wife?" ventured Tom.

"Lisa's in this production too, but she doesn't have a speaking part," said Chad. "Which is not true to life. Martin does go into the hospital quite regularly for a blood test, but I don't usually see him there. Not my department."

"Could you say, sir ― strictly off the record ― why he has blood tests?"

"Strictly off the record?" asked Chad doubtfully. Tom nodded vigorously. "I think ― I only say I think, mind ― that he has atrial fibrillation, which is usually treated with warfarin. The levels of warfarin in the blood have to be regularly monitored by blood tests."

Tom appeared to be satisfied. "If you would be so kind as to leave your details, sir..." and he passed Chad a blank sheet of A4 paper, where he obligingly wrote his full address, home telephone number and mobile number. "What part are you playing in this play?" asked Tom genially, standing up.

"Oh, I'm the murderer. A nasty piece of work. But not in real life," said Chad with a disarming smile as he took his leave.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

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The next visitor to Tom's lair was Avril Parkhurst. Her mother had tried to accompany her, but Tom made it clear that he wanted to talk to people one at a time.

Avril was certainly pretty, though not in the same perfect way as Gillian. She had mousey hair and plump cheeks and a habit of giggling which suggested a lack of maturity, but she answered Tom's questions readily enough.

"I understand that you were at school with Gillian," began Tom.

"Yes, that's right. Causton Comprehensive. Gillian's my best friend. Why, what's happened to her?"

"I am very afraid to say that Gillian has died," said Tom.

"Oh, no! It can't be!" Avril put her hand to her mouth and tears filled her eyes. "How did it happen?"

"That's what we're hoping to find out," said Tom, smiling at Avril. "As her best friend, what can you tell me about Gillian?"

"Gillian," said Avril, who had taken a diminutive handkerchief from her sleeve and was wiping her nose with it, "was very lucky. She got a good job, as a secretary."

"A secretary," commented Tom approvingly. "Do you know where?"

Avril fiddled with her handkerchief. "She worked for Francis Cavour," she said.

"She _worked _for him!" Tom could not avoid sounding surprised.

"Yeah, why?" Avril now blew her nose. "She got the job I should have got."

"Should have got?" Tom found it hard to say anything apart from echoing Avril's words.

Avril started picking at the wood on the top of the table with her fingernails. "Me and Gillian both went for the same job, right? Dr Cavour had advertised for a secretary, to work for him privately at his home. It sounded like a plum job. My qualifications were way better than Gillian's, but she got the job."

"So she got the job while you...?"

"Pff! Odd jobs here and there." Avril looked at the wall, away from Barnaby.

"And why do you think she got the job and you didn't?"

"Because she was prettier than me." Avril almost spat it out.

"I see. That must have been most upsetting for you."

"It was a touch." Avril was now shaking slightly.

"And what can you tell me," continued Barnaby, "about Francis Cavour?"

Avril shrugged her shoulders and paused before answering. "He's a very good-looking man," she said. "Course, I knew he wasn't a real doctor. He shouldn't have been doing those operations, not after the Medical Council struck him off. He'd even persuaded Gillie to have her boobs done."

"Really?" Another sheet of A4 was filling up fast. A further question occurred to Tom. "Avril, do you have a mobile phone?"

"Course I do," said Avril. "Why?"

"And did Gillian have one too?"

Avril laughed, a short, sharp laugh. "Course she did. Me and Gillian, we were always texting."

"Well, Avril, if you wouldn't mind giving me your contact details..." and Tom passed the A4 pad across the table to Avril, who supplied her details much as Chad Hunt had done earlier. "You have been most helpful," he said.

She was followed almost immediately by Amy, though there had been time for Avril to tell her mother the subject of the investigation.

"Really, Tom," said Amy, sitting down on the recently-vacated chair, where, because of her size, she seemed to loom over Barnaby, "you should have told me!"

"Should have told you what, Amy?" Tom smiled his innocuous smile.

"That Gillian had died!" she shrieked. "You only said she had disappeared."

"As a general rule, Amy, would you not say that people who have died have also, in a sense, disappeared?"

This somewhat took the wind out of Amy's sails. "Well, it really is most exciting!" she said, switching tack. "But I don't know how I can help you...?"

"Your daughter has told me," said Tom, "that she was Gillian's best friend. To paint a better picture of Gillian, I wonder what your impression of her was?"

"Oh!" Amy sounded surprised at the question. "Well, she was a nice, very pretty girl ― very clever too, I think. She came over to our house quite often."

"And she always got on well with Avril?"

"Yes ― why shouldn't she?"

"And did you ever hear Avril talk about a certain Francis Cavour?"

Amy knitted her brow. "Francis Cavour … Francis Cavour … let me see. Oh. Wasn't he that man that was struck off by the General Medical Council for unethical conduct? It was in the papers."

"But you never heard Avril, or Gillian, mention him?"

"No, I don't think so." Amy was mystified.

"And is there anything else you can tell me about Gillian? How she lived at home, for example."

"Now, there, Tom," and she leaned a plump arm across the table to touch Tom's left hand, at which he had the greatest difficulty in not recoiling, "you have put your finger on it."

"Have I?"

"Her set-up with her father was most peculiar. It was after the death of her mother, Martin's wife ― I suppose you've heard about that?" Tom did not reply, but thought it likely he already knew more about the circumstances of her death than Amy did. "Septicaemia, it was. Martin absolutely went to pieces. He tried to stop Gillian from leaving the house, as if he was trying to protect her from the outside world. Of course, she did leave the house, and she came over to us alright, but it was as if Martin was trying to keep her a child forever. And young girls, Tom, soon grow into young ladies. There's no stopping them!"

"Oh, I know," said Tom. "And it's difficult if they don't have a regular job by the age of nineteen, isn't it, Amy?"

"Yes, it is," said Amy, looking down. "Avril's been to loads of interviews, but it all seems to be so difficult these days."

"And what about Gillian? Did she have a job?"

Amy hesitated. "I _think _she did, but I don't know where. She never told me, at any rate."

"Well, Amy, I think that just about wraps it up," said Tom, beaming at her.

"Oh... yes, of course. I do hope I have been of some help."

"Immeasurably," said Tom, standing up.

Amy left the little side-room rather disappointed not to have learned any further revelations about the circumstances of Gillian's death.

There was then rather a long wait before Martin Wrigley, who had been required extensively on stage, appeared, during which Tom temporarily escaped from his hidey-hole and managed to find Joyce, who supplied him with a cup of tea, as his throat was dry from so much talking.

"We meet again, Inspector!" said Martin, slumping down on the chair. "How's it going?"

"There's still a lot to find out, I'm afraid," said Tom, "such as when exactly your daughter died. We still have to talk to Francis Cavour," he said as he took a sip of tea, watching Martin's reaction as he did so. Martin flinched at the name of Francis Cavour.

"Well, he has something to do with it, obviously. I tried to tell her. I tried to stop her. But young people won't be told nowadays, will they, Inspector?"

"It's very good of you to speak to me again today," said Tom. "I would have spared you, but there are a couple of points I wanted to clear up."

"Fire away," said Martin.

"In the first place ― you knew that your daughter was seeing Mr Cavour on a regular basis, yet you say you have never seen him yourself. How did she go to see him? Did she drive a car?"

"Oh, no, nothing like that," said Martin. "I knew of his reputation and I absolutely forbade Gillian from entertaining him in my home. I think she walked to the end of the crescent whenever she met him and he picked her up from there."

"And you never went out to see him?"

"Absolutely not. In my life Francis Cavour did not exist. Unfortunately, he existed quite a lot in Gillian's life."

"I see. And did Gillian have a job?"

"Oh, yes, she did," he said with pride. "A secretary with an insurance broker in Causton, she said."

"And again, you never saw her place of work?"

Martin shook his head. "Somewhere on the Martyr Warren Road, it was, but I never went there. I used to drive her in to Causton, but she always insisted on walking from the centre of the town. I would pick her up again outside the Post Office every evening."

Tom made some more notes. "Another thing you said, sir, was that she was due to go away on Thursday of last week. But I have information that in fact she left on Wednesday evening."

Martin hung his head. "You're right, Inspector. She was going to meet Cavour that evening and they were due to go to some bed-and-breakfast place that night and then fly off to St Lucia the next day. I didn't tell you that, because I am so ashamed. What I think I said was that she was due to leave on her holiday on Thursday, and that is correct."

"Do you happen to know where this bed-and-breakfast place was, sir?"

Martin shook his head again. "Sorry, I don't know. Gillian never said where it was."

"Well, thank you for clearing those little questions up for me," said Tom. "Will you be alright getting home?"

"Oh, yes, thank you. As soon as I get home I'm going to have a stiff drink. But do let me know anything you find out about this case, won't you, Inspector? My lovely Gillian..." and he sounded as though he might burst into tears once more.

Tom wasted no time in searching out Joyce again and telling her that he, also, was going home and that he, too, would have a stiff drink as soon as he got there.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

.

"What did you find out about Cavour?" asked Tom as he and Ben sped through the centre of Causton the next morning. To the surprise of both of them, Francis Cavour had phoned the police station and made an appointment to see them at his home at ten o'clock.

"There have been at least a dozen serious complaints against him," said Ben, "most of them of indecent assault. He has been investigated by the police, but never charged because of lack of evidence. As for his job with Causton General, he lost that eight years ago, because of concerns over sub-standard breast implants, which frequently had to be removed. He was only struck off by the General Medical Council last year, though. Seemed to be more to do with the breast implants than his fondness for young women."

"Which reminds me," said Barnaby, "I must phone George Bullard."

He pulled up just short of the ranch-style mansion on Martyr Warren Road and pulled out his mobile. "George, what news on Gillian Wrigley? … No certain date yet then, but at least three days ago … George, I know you said there was no sign of how she died, but I want you to do a special examination … I want to know if she had been interfered with. … Yes, sexually, George, I mean sexually."

The answerphone this time proved fruitful and the wrought iron gates swung open. Ben pulled the fake-antique bell handle at the front door and an electric bell sounded inside the building. The door swung open and there stood Avril Parkhurst.

"Avril!" said Barnaby.

"Inspector!" said Avril.

"I thought you didn't have a job?" asked Barnaby.

"I didn't," said Avril. "But Dr Cavour rang me up last night and asked if I could come in. He says he finds it difficult to work without a secretary. Please come this way."

"What was all that about?" asked Jones as they followed Avril up a flight of marble stairs.

"Later," said Barnaby.

Avril tapped on a satinwood door and, on hearing a muffled "Come in!", opened it to reveal an enormous office. The man behind the over-sized desk, who was wearing a shiny pin-stripe grey suit and had sleek, silver hair, also shiny, stood up and advanced towards them with arm outstretched.

"Ah, Inspector Barnaby, isn't it? Do come in. I'm Francis Cavour." Francis Cavour undoubtedly had a good-looking face and his body was in good shape for a man of nearing fifty (as Barnaby judged), but it was a powerful, athletic body, as though he was about to burst out of his suit and become Superman.

Francis grasped the hand of Tom Barnaby and squeezed it so hard that Tom feared it might drop off. He turned towards Ben. "And this is―?"

"Detective Sergeant Jones, also with Causton CID," said Ben hastily. Francis performed the same hand-squeezing exercise on Ben.

"Do sit down," he said expansively, oozing self-confidence. "I am so glad that you could come." There was a trio of leather arm-chairs in one corner of the room, where the three of them now sat. "Thank you, Avril, that will be all," he said, as Avril, uncertain as to what her duties were, had hung back by the doorway. Avril left the room, shutting the door quietly behind her. "I know why you're here," said Francis. "Avril told me."

"What did she tell you ― sir?" asked Barnaby.

"That Gillian Wrigley had died. Dear Gillian! I was very fond of her, you know."

Ben Jones had a sudden attack of coughing.

"Do you mean to say," said Tom Barnaby slowly, "that you thought Gillian was still alive, until―"

"Until last night, when I spoke with Avril," said Francis. "Oh, I have been so worried!"

Ben looked at Barnaby, his eyes wide with disbelief.

"Perhaps, sir, you could describe for us what happened on Wednesday evening of last week, to start with," Barnaby managed to ask.

"Let me see … Wednesday." Francis half-closed his eyes. "Of course! That's when she disappeared."

"Disappeared … sir?" asked Ben.

"We went up to a little guest-house in... I think it was in Goodman's Land ― near here, in fact ― and the plan was to set off the next morning for Heathrow and fly out to St Lucia. It was just a little present from me to my favourite girl."

Ben shuddered. "Separate rooms was it, sir?"

"Inspector, I do believe your sergeant is betraying his _bourgeois _morals," said Francis with a half-laugh.

"But she wasn't the first, was she, sir?" Ben could not help saying.

Tom waved his arm in a signal to Ben to be quiet, and Francis continued urbanely, "As I was saying, we planned to spend the night together before jetting off to the Caribbean. I opened a bottle of _Chateauneuf-du-Pape '99 _to celebrate. I am a connoisseur of fine wines."

"But something went wrong?" suggested Tom.

Francis shrugged his shoulders. "She changed her mind," he said.

"She changed her mind?" Tom was reduced to echoing his interviewee's words again.

"She said she'd had second thoughts and she wasn't going through with it. So she ordered a taxi and left, in the middle of the night. I never saw her again." Francis actually looked momentarily sad.

"Are you sure, sir, that you didn't have a row?" asked Tom.

"Oh, no, nothing like that. Gillian was not the hysterical type. As for me, I took the flight to St Lucia and returned the following Thursday, as planned. The ticket for Gillian was wasted. Now, you might well ask," he continued, "why I did not at least get in touch with her father to find out if she was alright. Believe you me, Inspector, I would have done, if her father had been a more reasonable man. But I'm afraid that he suffers from the same _bourgeois _morals I detected just now in your sergeant, in spadefuls. I have never been able to speak to him at all." Francis appeared to be satisfied that this explanation was all the two detectives needed.

"Could you not have contacted her on her mobile?" asked Ben.

"I tried to. I left half a dozen voice messages and a couple of texts, but I got no reply. Now I know why," said Francis, and his eyes actually started to fill with tears.

"Am I to understand," asked Tom Barnaby, attempting to regain the driving seat in this interview, "that you felt something special for Gillian Wrigley?"

"Of course I did," said Francis. "She was a very special girl."

"But as my sergeant has recently pointed out, it could be said, could it not sir, that she was not the first?"

"Aha, you've been reading the papers," said Francis. "All completely unfounded."

"So there is no truth whatever in the allegations made over a number of years that you indecently assaulted young girls, and that some of them were under age?" Tom found himself asking all the questions since Ben, who felt that he had been insulted, was staring at the floor.

Francis brushed his hand over his forehead as if a fly had just landed on it. "All complete nonsense. It must be my magnetic personality."

Ben opened his mouth as if he was going to be sick.

"I am also aware, sir, that you were struck off the register of physicians entitled to practise by the General Medical Council some time last year. Is that also nonsense?"

Francis Cavour seemed rather amused. "The General Medical Council is a law unto itself," he said. "But of course I wouldn't do anything illegal."

"Then why do you need a secretary?" asked Ben, who had acquired a second wind.

"Since my retirement," said Francis grandly, "I have been much occupied with writing my auto-biography. I feel that, with my vast experience, I have a lot to give to the world."

Ben Jones looked as though he might explode.

"Are you sure that you have not been continuing to perform breast augmentation operations, sir?" Barnaby enunciated his words carefully.

"Of course not." Francis Cavour seemed totally unruffled by all the questions and insinuations. "And now ― unless there is anything else...?"

"Yes, sir," said Tom. "You mentioned a guest house in Goodman's Land. Would you happen to know the name?"

"I believe it was called 'The Bay Trees'," said Francis. "You didn't tell me, by the way, how Gillian died?"

"She was stuffed into a black bin liner and dumped in a rubbish bin outside a pub," said Ben Jones forcefully.

Francis looked pained. "Oh God," he said. "What a way to go! Now, if I can be of any further help―"

"We will certainly contact you," said Tom. "I trust that you will not be jetting off anywhere else while we continue our investigations, sir."

"My work is here," said Francis, "and here I stay. I want to find out what happened to the poor girl too, of course. I am always ready to help the police with their enquiries."

"Yeah, right," muttered Ben under his breath.

"If there's anything else that you want to tell me―" said Tom, handing Francis his card.

"Of course, Inspector." Francis went to the door and called, "Avril! Show the gentlemen out, would you?"

Tom addressed Avril on the stairs. "Avril, what exactly are you called upon to do as a secretary for Mr Cavour?"

"I don't know," said Avril candidly. "He didn't say anything about that. And I've only been here since this morning." They stopped as they reached the front door. "I'm quite sure about Gilly, though. That's what she said to me."

"That he had persuaded her to have a boob job, you mean?"

"And that he'd done other jobs too, on other women, during the last year. She told me that. But for God's sake don't tell Francis that I said so."

As soon as they had got outside the front door Ben Jones let out a previously-suppressed scream. "Smarmy bugger!" he said.

"My sentiments entirely," said Tom Barnaby.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

.

"Darling, I'm home!" Chad Hunt slammed the door of their sprawling cottage in Morton Fendle and went into the kitchen, where his wife was gently stirring a rabbit stew on top of the Aga. "Smells good," he said, sniffing the air. It was twelve thirty, and Chad, whose shift at the hospital had finished at midday, was glad to come home to some hearty home cooking rather than eat the miserable rations served in the staff canteen.

"You left your mobile phone behind," said Lisa quietly, without turning around.

"Oh, I wondered where it was," said Chad, kissing Lisa on the cheek. Lisa picked up the mobile phone from the stainless steel drainer beside the sink and turned it on.

"We must talk," said Avril. "Please call me."

Lisa switched it off and turned to face Chad. "It's that girl in the play. I know her voice. Why does she want to talk to you?"

"Oh, it's... it's probably something to do with the production," he said. "Avril's always forgetting her lines."

"So you're coaching her, are you? I wondered why your shifts seemed to go on so long recently." Lisa silently moved the earthenware casserole to the middle of the kitchen table. "You're lying, Chad, I always know when you're lying."

"Don't be silly, darling. Why would I lie about something like that?"

"I'm not a fool, Chad. What is it about Avril? She's only a child, for God's sake."

"She's nearly twenty," corrected Chad.

"Oh, so you know that, do you? You blithering idiot!" Her voice, which was high-pitched to begin with, now rose to a shrill scream. "Do you think I don't know what's going on? Just because the children are all at school. Well, I'm not going to stand for it."

"Calm down," said Chad.

"If it wasn't for this play..." and she ladled out a portion of the rabbit stew into Chad's bowl with such energy that the sauce splattered onto the kitchen table.

…

…

…

"OK, so let's go back to basics," said Ben Jones. "Can we call it murder now?"

The two detectives were standing in the CID office, preparing to set out that afternoon to Goodman's Land. "No, we can't," said Tom. "Not until we have some definite news from Bullard as to how she died."

"But, sir," expostulated Ben, "she couldn't have had a heart attack, or committed suicide, and then jumped in the wheelie bin, having covered herself with a black bin liner."

Tom smiled. "Of course not. Somebody put her there. But who, and why? Whoever it was must have chosen The Queen's Arms, Morton Fendle, as a deliberate insult to Martin Wrigley, as he lives in the same village."

"That story from Cavour ― about her changing her mind and going home by taxi ― he's obviously covering something up."

Tom thought for a moment. "He said that she had changed her mind, but what about?"

"Well, about going off on holiday with him. Perhaps she finally saw the light and realised what a two-faced toad he really is."

"But according to Avril Parkhurst he had persuaded her to have her boobs done."

"Oh!" Ben blinked and shook his head. "So you think she changed her mind about that?"

"It's a possibility. And we must bear in mind that if Francis Cavour was still practising cosmetic surgery when he had been struck off the medical register, that, most definitely, was not legal."

"And what about Avril herself?"

"A most complicated young lady, there. She is full of bitterness because Gillian, her best friend, got the job she thought she should have got, as secretary to Francis Cavour."

"And now that Gillian is out of the way she turns up as Francis Cavour's secretary."

"Precisely. And her mother knows nothing about what she is up to."

"And Martin Wrigley knew nothing about what Gillian was up to ― and it always comes back to Cavour. Like a spider in a web."

At this moment George Bullard, wearing what looked like green pyjamas, entered the office. "Tom!" he said. "I've done what you asked. She's _virgo intacta_."

"Eh?" uttered Ben.

"It's Latin. It means she's a virgin," explained Tom.

"What? A young girl looking like that..."

"I've also had her insides and her blood analysed. She died of ricin poisoning."

"Ricin?" uttered Ben.

"A deadly form of poison for which there is no certain cure. It was diluted in what must have been a large quantity of wine, but enough to kill. Judging by the state of her liver, her spleen and her kidneys, I think that we can safely say that she died at least five days ago. She would have died a slow, painful, death, over a period of about two days."

"Excellent news, George!" said Tom.

"Always happy to oblige," said George and took his departure.

"Well, are you up for a little jaunt in the country?" asked Tom, rubbing his hands, as if he had just won the lottery.

"So it was murder," said Ben as he followed his superior to the Volvo outside.

The crowded streets of Causton soon gave way to pleasant rolling hills and everything was sparkling in the spring sunshine, with crocuses and daffodils waving their bright colours by the roadside. "Sir," said Ben, "there are three reasons why Gillian might not have wanted to go through with it. There's the holiday and the boob job, granted. But if she was _virgo intacta_, as George Bullard called it, maybe she was terrified of going through with sex?"

"Good point," said Tom.

"And with a man like that, who can blame her?" added Ben.

The Bay Trees, Goodman's Land, was not difficult to find, as it stood on a crossroad in the centre of the village. It was a nondescript red brick house with white-painted woodwork, of the sort seen all over the county, but at the front, rather too large for the space they were in, stood two neatly-clipped bay trees. Ben rang the bell.

A lady of uncertain years (though probably more than fifty) opened the door. She was only just five foot tall and had a round, smiling face. She wore an apron with the image of bay trees emblazoned all over it, as if she had been cooking, and fluffy red slippers. "Yes?" she said.

"Good afternoon," began Tom, "we are from Causton CID and my name is Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby."

"Detective Sergeant Jones," said Jones, and both of them presented their warrant cards.

"Oh, good heavens!" said the lady, "what's happened now?"

"Do you think we could come in a moment?" asked Tom.

"Well, yes, of course," said the lady, and shuffled towards an impersonal room full of ill-assorted furniture that resembled a station waiting room.

Tom took a closer look at the lady. "I'm sorry, but ― haven't I seen you before somewhere?"

"Of course you have," said she, "I was at the rehearsal last night. I recognized you at once. Cully's father, aren't you?"

"That's right," said Tom, "and you are―?"

"Madeleine Brackle. I play the prostitute in the play, the sister of the murderer."

Ben swallowed hard, as the casting seemed so improbable. The three of them sat down in the unheated parlour and Ben rubbed his hands. Although sunny outside, the temperature in the room could not have been more than fifteen degrees. "Are you cold, dear?" asked Madeleine. "We hardly ever use this room. Wait a minute, I'll put on the fire," and she bent down to light an antiquated gas fire set in what had once been a fireplace. "Now, I expect it's about this girl."

"In a way, it is," said Tom, "Did you ever meet Gillian Wrigley?"

"Gillian Wrigley?" asked Madeleine. "Is she Martin Wrigley's daughter?"

"Was, Mrs Brackle."

"You mean she's _dead?_" Madeleine Brackle mouthed the word. Tom nodded. "No, Inspector, I never met her. In fact I only met her father on this play we're doing. I don't know him at all, really. But I do feel sorry for him...".

"What I really wanted to ask you about is a couple that stayed here on Wednesday of last week. Wednesday to Thursday," said Tom.

Madeleine thought for a brief moment and then said, "That'll be the Pilchards. We don't get many visitors this way, not at this time of the year, and they were a couple you wouldn't forget in a hurry."

"They were the only visitors that night?" established Jones.

"Oh, yes, and we haven't had any others since. In the summer it can get quite busy, but in the spring..."

"And they took one room?" continued Jones.

"Of course! They were a married couple. Though I must say, she did look very young. The whole business was rather strange, really."

"In what way was it strange?" asked Barnaby.

"Well, in the first place Mr Pilchard rang up a week before and said he wanted the best room in the house. So I gave him the big room at the front, the one with the plasma screen TV. Then they came about seven o'clock and he paid me a hundred pounds in advance _―_that's our terms ― but the room was only sixty and he told me to keep the change! You could have knocked me down with a feather."

"That sounds like Mr Pilchard," said Ben, glancing at Tom.

"Was there anything else strange about the Pilchards?" asked Barnaby.

"Oh, yes, there was. There was coming and going all night." Madeleine Brackle clasped her hands together with her elbows on her knees and leaned forward, clearly enjoying her story. "I sent them over to the pub for dinner ― we don't do meals ― and they came back about eight thirty. I went to bed about eleven, I reckon, and I could hear the plasma screen TV in their room going on, but it stopped after a bit. About midnight I heard the front door slam. One of them had gone out."

"Really?"

Madeleine Brackle nodded. "I give them their own key, see, so they can come and go when they please. We used to double-lock, but quite honestly it's a blessed nuisance if they come back late and we've gone to bed. Well, anyway, that was about midnight. Then blow me if about one thirty the door didn't slam again."

"I suppose whoever went out had come in again?"

Madeleine shook her head. "Oh, no," she said, "I can hear them on the stairs. First one went out at midnight, then the other went out at one thirty. And I could swear I heard a car's engine outside, just before the second one went. And what do you think happened next?"

"I can't imagine," said Tom.

"Three o'clock in the morning the door slammed again!" Madeleine leaned back in her chair in triumph. "Only this time it was Mr Pilchard coming back in ― I know it was him because it was only him at breakfast. He _said _that his wife had been taken ill in the middle of the night and had had to go home, but I didn't believe him."

"Very wise," murmured Tom.

"Can we just get this straight," piped up Ben, who had been making notes, "you said you could hear a car's engine before the second one left ― like a car waiting, with the engine turning over, do you mean, Mrs Brackle?"

"That's right, dear," said Madeleine.

"But what about the first time some-one went out ― did you hear a car then?"

"Ah, yes, but that was different, wasn't it. The first one went out and then I heard the car start up and they drove away. Now, they only had one car, dear. And the car was there in the morning, when Mr Pilchard left after breakfast. So I reckon Mrs Pilchard, she must have gone home by taxi."

"You should have been a detective, Mrs Brackle," said Ben.

"Did you hear much talking coming from their room during the night? Arguments, perhaps?" asked Tom.

"No, not really," said Madeleine. "I did hear them talking sometimes ― but not raised voices like, not enough to hear what they said. At any rate, what with all the coming and going, I didn't get much sleep that night. And who am I to complain, after that big tip he gave me? Even if they did leave the room in a state."

"What sort of a state?" enquired Tom anxiously.

"Well, it wasn't much ― just a couple of dirty glasses and an empty wine bottle."

"I don't suppose," said Tom, feeling his heart thumping, "that you kept that wine bottle, by any chance?"

"Matter of fact, I did," said Madeleine proudly. "It was such a pretty bottle and it looked very expensive, I keep it on the windowsill in the kitchen. Alf's always telling me to throw things out, but I do tend to hang on to things. Alf's my husband, by the way."

"Do you think we could see it?" asked Tom.

"Mm, course you can," said Madeleine Brackle and duly shuffled out to the kitchen. When she returned Tom and Ben were already on their feet, ready to leave.

"You see," she said, showing it to them, "_Chateauneuf... du... Pape, 1999_. Isn't it pretty?"

"Yes, it is," said Tom. "I suppose you rinsed it out, Madeleine?"

Madeleine looked embarrassed. "Er... no, I don't suppose I did. Alf's always telling me off for things like that."

"Madeleine, I'm sorry to ask you this, but do you think we could keep it? It might be an important piece of evidence in a murder investigation," said Tom.

"Murder? Oh, Lord! Has Martin's daughter gone and got herself murdered? Well, if it's _important..._". Reluctantly she relinquished her trophy.

With assurances that they would meet again, perhaps at The Playhouse, Tom left Madeleine, having shaken her hand warmly, and rejoined his sergeant, who had gone on ahead to the car.

"At least Cavour, or should I say Pilchard, told the truth about something," said Tom, handing Ben the precious bottle. "_Chateauneuf-du-Pape '99_."

"Pilchards!" said Ben and the two of them laughed out loud.

The black Volvo purred through the pleasant rolling countryside and they were both silent for a while. Then Ben said tentatively, "Sir, do you think that Madeleine was right about the taxi?"

"I don't see why not," said Tom. "You mean ― where did Gillian really go?"

"Yes, sir."

"That, Jones, we must find out. When we get back to the office, contact all the taxi firms in the county."

"But, sir―," protested Ben.

"Well, we can't find her mobile, can we? So we don't know which one she called. If there's a taxi firm in Morton Fendle, try that one first. If not, make a list of all the firms in Causton and try them. You could also try Goodman's Land, though I doubt she would have called a taxi from there because she didn't know the place ― at least, as far as we know she didn't."

"Yes, sir," said Ben, gritting his teeth as he thought what better things he could do with his time on a Saturday evening.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

.

It was six o'clock and The Queen's Arms was beginning to fill up with the Saturday crowd. By nine o'clock it would be packed for the karaoke night, many participants travelling from as far afield as Causton for the occasion, but for the time being Josh could manage the bar on his own, having hired a couple of undergraduates from Midsomer University to help him between eight p.m. and eleven.

Avril parked her battered old second-hand Skoda Felicia in the car park and walked into the pub uncertainly. She saw him at once, standing at the bar, confidently drinking a gin and tonic. "Chad," she said, going up to him, "was this really necessary?"

"Avril!" said Chad, embracing her warmly, "thanks for coming. What are you drinking?"

"Oh, er... a whisky and lemonade," she said.

Chad managed to get the attention of Josh and ordered a whisky and lemonade. "Let's go and sit down," he said as soon as the drink arrived, "we've got to talk about things." They walked over to a vacant table in the corner. "My wife knows," he said.

"What does she know?" asked Avril.

"She knows about us."

"She always was a sour puss," said Avril and took a sip of her drink. "Where is she now?"

"She said she had a migraine and went to bed this afternoon. I told her I was going to the pub, it's quite alright. We had a bit of a row at lunchtime. What did you want to talk to me about?"

"It's about Wednesday of last week. You know what I mean. I feel so guilty."

"Don't be ridiculous!" said Chad and kissed her on the forehead. "As a matter of fact, I wanted to talk to you about that too." He looked into her eyes. "I think you should make a clean breast of it."

"But I can't!" wailed Avril, sounding more like an overgrown child than a young adult.

"There, there," said Chad. "I think you should tell the police what happened."

"Tell the police?" Avril moaned. "That's the last thing I should do! It involves so many people..."

"Avril, Gillian has died and nothing is going to bring her back."

Tears started to stream down Avril's face. "But if I tell the police they won't believe me," she cried. "And what if Francis denies it all?"

"Please stop talking about Francis," said Chad. "Why ever did you get mixed up with him in the first place?"

"I know, I know," sobbed Avril, "I was a little fool. And now I'm working for him."

Chad stared at her for a moment. "Then you really are a fool," he said, draining the last of his gin and tonic. "I ought to be getting back."

"Oh, Chad, please don't leave me, please, please!" Avril was now a very frightened and vulnerable teenager, and the one person she thought she could depend upon was threatening to leave her.

"It's up to you," said Chad calmly. "But if I were you, I'd tell the police what happened. That way things can only get better."

"Do you really think so?" asked Avril, only too ready to be influenced by an older male.

"I do," said Chad and kissed her firmly on the lips.

…

…

…

It was Sunday morning, and Tom had decided to have a lie-in. He could hear his wife and daughter chattering downstairs for some time before he eventually looked at the alarm clock. A quarter to ten!

He suddenly remembered. Jones hadn't got back to him. He reached for his mobile phone and pressed a number. "Jones!" he almost shouted. "What about the taxi? … What do you mean, they can't contact him? … Yes, I know it's Sunday, but that's no excuse..." He sat up in bed and beat the duvet angrily with his free fist. "Yes, of course, tell them it's a murder investigation," he said, slightly more calmly, "put pressure on them to contact the man as soon as possible. We want to know."

"So what's this then?" asked Cully when he eventually made his way down. She was standing at the foot of the stairs with arms folded, in mock reproof. "Breakfast finished an hour ago."

"I know, I know," said a bleary Tom and kissed her on the cheek.

"I'll make you a cup of coffee," said Joyce, laughing, who was folding up the table-cloth. "And even a boiled egg, if you want it."

"Oh no, no boiled egg," said Tom, who had managed to get past his sentinel. "I really needed that sleep."

"Of course you did," said Joyce. "It's Sunday after all. Even policemen are allowed a day off at the weekend. And today I don't have to cook."

"Oh, that is good news!" said Tom with perhaps too much enthusiasm. "Why not?"

"Because we're going to lunch with Amy. Isn't that kind of her?"

"Ah." Tom's face showed mixed emotions. "Amy."

"Yes, Amy Parkhurst. You do remember her now, don't you, Tom?" Joyce had begun to wonder whether Tom suffered from selective amnesia.

"Yes ― yes, I remember her _very _well," said Tom with emphasis.

"You don't mean to say that you don't _like _Amy, do you, Tom?" asked Joyce in a concerned voice.

"No, no, I don't mean that. It's just that she... asks a lot of questions. And she _is_ a suspect in this case I've got on."

"What, Amy?" cried Joyce.

"Joyce, it is definitely a murder investigation now. Everybody's a suspect until we find out who the murderer is."

"Here we go again," said Joyce wearily.

Tom's mobile buzzed. "Barnaby … yes, thank you George, I know it's Sunday … there's no doubt then? … Yes, thank you George, that's a tremendous help."

Wife and daughter looked at him expectantly as he returned his mobile phone to his pocket. "The cause of death was ricin," he said, "somehow introduced into a bottle of wine."

…

…

…

Amy's lunch party was, relatively speaking, a success. Only the Barnabys had been invited, including of course Cully Dixon. Avril was there and helped her mother in the kitchen a great deal, but hardly said a word throughout the meal. Joyce spent a lot of time discussing with Amy what sort of headgear the King of France should wear, until it was decided that it should be a sort of green beret, puffed out a bit, with white feathers stitched round the edge. Tom made an unfortunate intervention by suggesting that the play be performed in modern dress, but a look from Cully silenced him. He enjoyed his food immensely and kept saying things like 'Ooh, this is good!' and 'Oh, this is delicious!', much to Joyce's annoyance. When it came to the coffee and the _petits fours_ he leaned back in his chair and said with a wide smile, "I am replete!"

"That's a long word, Tom," said Amy.

"He means he's full," said Cully.

"And now, if I might perhaps use your bathroom, Amy...?"

"Of course, Avril will show you where it is," said Amy.

Avril jumped to her feet, swallowing hard, and led Tom into the hallway. "Inspector, I've got something to say to you. Privately," she said.

"Oh, well, is there anywhere―"

"Not here," she said urgently. "My mother mustn't suspect. Can you meet me this afternoon at The Cosy Kitchen? It's the tea shop just down the road."

"Well, yes, of course, if it's that private," said Tom. "Shall we say four o'clock?"

"Fine," said Avril. A sense of relief washed over her and she took Tom's hand. "Thank you very, very much. It means a lot to me," she said, and it evidently did.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

.

Avril bit her nails nervously. "I know what happened on Wednesday night last week," she said at last. She paused until Sue, the owner of The Cosy Kitchen, had served her her scone, butter, clotted cream and jam. Tom waited patiently. "It's to do with … Francis Cavour."

"Of course it is," said Tom quietly.

"The thing is ― Gillian. I said I was her best friend ― and that's true. But I was ever so jealous of her."

"Of course you were," said Tom.

"See ― when I went to that interview a year back, I really fancied Francis. And he really fancied me." Tom merely raised his eyebrows. "In fact, he made love to me there and then."

"Really?" Tom thought that Avril must have just confirmed to him that, unlike her best friend, she was not herself _virgo intacta_.

"Oh yes, he fancied me too. I thought I had it made. But then Gillian went to her interview, a week later."

Tom watched her as he took a sip of tea.

"She got the job!" Avril's eyes clouded with tears, which she brushed aside. "It wasn't fair. I kept calling Francis, and he kept calling me, but things were never the same again."

"Go on." Tom took a bite of his toasted teacake.

"Eventually, the silly bitch told me that she was going away with Francis. I was furious."

"Yes."

"She said that he had persuaded her to have a boob job done." Avril leaned forward. "But the thing is, the night before she was due to meet him, she said that she wasn't going through with it."

"Wasn't going through with what?" asked Tom.

"The boob job. And she said that she was going to tell the police that he was still doing this operation."

"Ah." Tom leaned back in his chair. "And she also had first-hand evidence, from what you tell me, that he was continuing to practise when he had been struck off."

"That's what she told me." Avril took a large bite of scone laden with jam and cream. "That night, on Tuesday night, we had a row."

"You had a row with Gillian?"

Avril nodded. "It was 'cos, never mind the business of the boob job, she said she was still going away with him."

"That must have annoyed you a lot," said Tom.

"It did," admitted Avril. "As a matter of fact, I went slightly mad."

Tom finished his teacake and watched Avril with a mixture of compassion and curiosity.

"I called Francis on my mobile, about midnight Wednesday, or just before. I knew they were at a bed-and-breakfast somewhere and were due to fly out to St Lucia the next day. I said―" and here Avril had trouble going on, but Tom waited until she had composed herself sufficiently "―I said that I would commit suicide if he didn't come and see me that instant."

"Suicide?" Tom took another sip of tea.

Avril nodded, the tears forming in her eyes again. "I know it's stupid, but please, please believe me, Inspector Barnaby, I was quite serious at the time. I had a bottle full of Paracetamol and I threatened to take them all if Francis didn't come round straight away."

"And...?"

"And he did."

"But surely, Avril, if you were in your mother's house, at midnight..."

"Oh, I don't live in the main house," said Avril hastily. "I live in the summer house. It's been converted into my quarters. It used to be a guest room and bathroom, but I moved out there a couple of years ago. I had to, 'cos Mum was always prying, trying to find out what I was doing."

"I can understand that," said Tom. "So Francis arrived..."

"Yeah, Francis arrived, and he talked me out of it." She said it quite matter-of-factly. "I suppose," she said with an embarrassed grin, "that I was really trying to disrupt their holiday. Trying to prevent them from going away together."

"Did he mention Gillian?" asked Tom.

"No, not really. He just said that he loved me and that everything would be fine when he got back from St Lucia."

"And then he left?"

"Yeah, he left ― after comforting me. If you know what I mean." Avril looked down demurely.

"Oh, I see," said Tom. "So, after he had _'comforted' _you―" he gave the word a slight inflection, at which Avril giggled, "―he left?"

"He left, and as far as I know went back to her. The next thing I knew he was back from holiday and she was dead." Avril now drank a whole cup of tea and Tom poured out another cup for her. "I'm sorry I've been such a so-and-so," she said.

"Oh, not at all ― you have been very helpful," said Tom. "But you do now realise, don't you, that Francis Cavour is a dangerous character?"

"Yeah, I do," said Avril. "I wish I'd never got mixed up with him. Oh, Inspector Barnaby―", as a sudden thought struck her, "―please don't repeat what I've just said to Francis, will you?"

Tom looked at her sternly. "It seems to me," he said, "that what you have told me will already be known to Francis. You have nothing to fear," he said, wondering whether in fact Avril might not herself now be in danger.

"Really?" Avril always was easily controlled by older men.

…

…

…

It was six o'clock that evening, and Joyce was snoozing on the settee downstairs, after her large meal with Amy. Cully was upstairs, writing up some notes for the following week's rehearsal, while Tom, having returned from his second visit to Midsomer Wellow that day, had gone upstairs to lie down, but he found his mind too full of unanswered questions to sleep. Francis Cavour... the bottle of wine... ricin... the thoughts swirled around his brain like water in a sink whose drain has become blocked. Suddenly he opened his eyes. The two glasses of red wine. Madeleine had said there were two glasses of red wine that she had to wash up. It didn't make any sense. Unless, of course, that was a deliberate ploy by Cavour to make it look as though he had drunk the wine as well, and he'd tipped his wine into Gillian's glass when she needed a top-up. Monday morning, without fail, and in the company of Ben Jones, he would go and interview Francis Cavour again. Francis Cavour... he closed his eyes, but unfortunately had an image of Cully and Joyce and Amy, and all three of them were reprimanding him for some unknown misdemeanour. Suddenly the front doorbell rang. Being the widest awake, Cully answered it.

"Chad!" she said with some surprise.

"Cully, I'm sorry to barge in like this, but of course I had your address from the notes..." said Chad Hunt.

"Yes, of course, come in!" said Cully, opening the door wide.

Joyce had just managed to come round and was sitting up on the settee. "Hello, Chad," she said as brightly as she could. Chad was carrying a sheaf of papers.

"Hello, Joyce," he said, "I was wondering whether I might have a word with your husband."

"Yes, of course," said Joyce and called out loudly, "Tom!"

Tom opened his eyes with the impression that Joyce's call had just saved him from being stabbed with a dagger by Amy. "Coming!" he managed to croak.

Joyce offered Chad a cup of tea, or something stronger, but Chad declined. Certain that his visit had to do with the murder investigation and not with the play, Cully excused herself and returned to her notes. Tom came downstairs a moment later. "I'm so sorry to keep you waiting," he said. "What can I do for you?"

"I wondered if I could have a word with you in private?" asked Chad.

"Ah," said Tom, looking at Joyce, who took the hint.

"I've got such a lot to do in the kitchen," she said, and left the two of them together, firmly closing the kitchen door behind her.

"Please ― have a seat," said Tom, indicating the armchair. They both sat down.

"It's about Francis Cavour," said Chad.

"I thought it might be," said Tom.

Chad spread his sheets of paper all over the coffee table. They were photocopies of newspaper articles, dating back some ten years, and they all concerned Francis Cavour, whose image was displayed on most of them. "I've been collecting these for some time," he said. "I don't think he should get away with it."

Tom studied them one by one. "Rape... indecent assault... rape... ah, here we have the breast implants," he said.

"Why has he not been brought to book?" asked Chad.

Tom felt slightly embarrassed. "Well... it wasn't really my department," he said, collecting together the articles that had appeared during the last twelve months.

"But a girl has now died," said Chad. "And we know her mother died from his incompetence. How many more have to die?"

Tom passed his tongue over his lips, which suddenly felt very dry. "None, I hope," he said.

"Hope isn't good enough," said Chad, his eyes blazing in a way that Tom hadn't seen before. "That man must go behind bars. You, Barnaby, are now in a position to nail him."

"What most interests me," said Tom, "is these nine articles published in the last year. As you may or may not be aware, he was only suspended last year by the General Medical Council."

"Of course I'm aware!" said Chad. "I kept prodding that sleepy organization to do something about him. He should have been struck off years ago."

"Yet according to these articles," and he selected four photocopies which he grouped together, "he has performed several breast augmentation operations in the last twelve months, the most recent of them being only last month. Which is illegal," he added.

"Using banned breast implants from France. Some of them leaked, and every time they leak the NHS has to pay a fortune to remove them."

"However," continued Tom, scrutinising the articles in question more closely, "I see that they are all attributed to 'an anonymous source', or their 'own correspondent'. Unless these papers ― and I note that they are all local papers ― were prepared to disclose their sources, I fear that none of the allegations would stand up in court."

"Prepared or forced?" asked Chad.

Tom looked at him calmly. "Do you have any special reason to wish to see Mr Cavour put behind bars, sir?" he asked.

Chad shrugged his shoulders. "Not really. But a girl's body is sacrosanct. Nobody should interfere with them. Do you realise, Barnaby, that some of these girls were only eighteen?"

"I hear what you say," said Barnaby, only too aware that he was using weasel words. "My main concern, of course, is to find the murderer of Gillian Wrigley."

"Pah!" Chad let out a plosive puff of air. "You won't have far to look." He gathered up his sheaf of papers and stood up. "I hope I haven't taken up too much of your time," he said, with none of his previous easy-going manner in evidence. "Good day to you, Barnaby. Do excuse me to Joyce," with which he took his leave.

Tom considered the interview for a moment or two, now seeing Chad in a new light.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

.

Tom was full of energy when he walked into the station on Monday morning. "Jones, call Francis Cavour and make an appointment to see him as soon as possible. If he can't make it, get him in here. I've some questions for our silver-haired Don Juan."

"Yes, sir," said Ben with relish.

"But before you do that, look on the database and see if Chad Hunt has any previous." Tom strode up and down the office like a caged lion. _'A girl's body is sacrosanct' _had set off an alarm in Tom's head.

"Oh," said Ben with surprise, "Dr Chad Hunt does have previous. He was cautioned a couple of years ago for grooming young girls on the internet."

"Was he indeed?" commented Tom. "Then he shouldn't be working in a hospital, should he?"

Ben got through to Francis Cavour. "Mr Cavour... it's the CID again, Detective Sergeant Jones speaking. I just wondered if we could call on you today to clear up a couple of points? … Yes, that's right. Inspector Barnaby will be with me. … Thank you very much, sir." He put the phone down. "This morning will not be convenient," he said, "but he agreed to meet us at three o'clock this afternoon."

"Oh. Well, I suppose that will have to do," said Tom. "I wonder what he's doing now."

"A breast implant?" suggested Ben.

"And what about the taxi company?"

"It's Barton Cars in Causton, sir. They haven't come back to me yet. They identified the pick-up point as being The Bay Trees, Goodman's Land, at one thirty a.m., but they say that, according to their log, the caller only said she wanted to go to Causton."

"Causton? Francis Cavour lives in Causton."

"Yes, sir. But they can only be sure where exactly if they talk to the driver, and he is not on duty until seven o'clock this evening."

"And they couldn't disturb him at home," said Tom in irritation. "Get them on the phone, Jones, and tell them that we will visit them at that hour."

"Yes, sir."

…

…

…

"What can I do for you today, gentlemen?" Francis Cavour, who had opened the door himself on this occasion, Avril being nowhere to be seen, ushered Tom and Ben into his enormous office and the three of them sat down on the trio of leather armchairs where they had sat on their previous visit. Francis leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs, the picture of relaxed confidence.

"Mr Cavour," began Barnaby, "I just wanted to get a few details straight. You said in your previous statement that you and Gillian had gone to The Bay Trees, Goodman's Land, on the Wednesday evening, and that Gillian had gone home because she had changed her mind."

"Yes."

"But it wasn't quite as simple as that, was it, sir?" Barnaby paused, but Francis Cavour looked as impassive as ever. "I have to tell you, sir, that I have spoken with Avril Parkhurst, and she has given me her side of the story." He looked at Francis expectantly.

Francis Cavour thought for a moment and then said, "You shouldn't blame the dear girl, you know. She is a very vulnerable individual."

"I am well aware of that," said Tom coldly.

"I don't know what she has said to you, but I imagine she has told you everything?"

"Pretty much," said Ben.

"That's why she's not here today. She sounded so upset yesterday evening that I gave her the day off."

"How very good of you, sir," said Ben with ill-disguised irony.

"These young people―", Francis sighed sadly, "―they often need a mature shoulder to lean on. And, yes, in the case of Avril, I am that shoulder."

Ben Jones made some faint retching noises.

"The fact is that Avril, I don't know quite why, found herself irresistibly attracted to me from the moment she first saw me. Please don't blame her, Inspector, if she tried to do something foolish. I managed to prevent her."

"That was very noble of you sir," said Tom, the words sticking in his gullet. "So can we establish that you left The Bay Trees at about midnight and made your way to Midsomer Wellow, in order to prevent Avril Parkhurst from committing suicide?"

"Correct." Francis Cavour was as unperturbed as ever. "I made some excuse to Gillian about having forgotten to turn off the hot water at home."

"And, having persuaded Avril not to commit suicide, did you go straight back to The Bay Trees?"

"Of course I did. What else would I have done?"

"You didn't, for example, actually go home first for any reason?"

Francis looked at Tom Barnaby and laughed nervously. "I told you, it was only an excuse I gave Gillian about the hot water."

Tom waited a moment and then continued. "However, that's not the complete picture, is it, sir?" Francis said nothing. "Because according to a witness statement, when you returned to The Bay Trees Gillian Wrigley was no longer there. Is that correct, sir?"

Francis Cavour still said nothing for a while, his whole body seeming to sway slightly forwards and backwards. Then he said, "She had changed her mind and gone home. I told you yesterday."

"Changed her mind about what, sir? About going on holiday or having her breasts augmented?"

Francis gave the first sign of nervousness, fidgeting with his fingers, which he clasped, unclasped and then clasped again together. "She changed her mind about the holiday," he said.

"But you had persuaded her to have her breasts enlarged, hadn't you sir?"

Francis was silent for a moment and then said, "Inspector, if you believe everything you read in the papers―"

"But it's not just what I read in the papers," interrupted Tom. "I have a witness who has stated―"

"Ah, witnesses, witnesses!" said Francis, his voice now slightly more emotional than it had been, "I suppose Avril has been telling you some tittle-tattle or other."

"Tittle-tattle or not, sir, I believe that you had persuaded Gillian Wrigley to have her breasts enlarged. I need hardly remind you that such an operation can only legally be performed by a qualified doctor, at the very least."

Francis Cavour uncrossed his legs and stood up. "If I had a penny for every false allegation that has been made against me, I would be... twice as rich as I am now," he said. "Inspector Barnaby, is there anything else you wanted to say to me?"

"Yes, sir, there is," said Barnaby quietly, remaining seated. Francis Cavour hesitated and then sat down again. "I believe," continued Barnaby, "that Gillian Wrigley had threatened to tell the police that you were continuing to perform illegal operations and that that is why you killed her."

There was silence in the room as if the air was full of lead. Then Francis Cavour, having resumed his calm exterior, said calmly, "And what evidence do you have for such a preposterous allegation?"

"A bottle of wine was found in the room you occupied at The Bay Trees. This bottle was empty, but it contained traces of ricin."

"Ricin?" Francis sounded astonished. "It can't be," he said.

"How so, sir?" asked Tom.

"Because we both drank from it," said Francis. "It was _Chateauneuf-du-Pape_, and a very good year."

"1999," interjected Ben Jones.

"Quite. I am known for my love of fine wines. Ask anybody."

"Oh, we will, sir," said Ben in a weary tone.

"And where, if I may ask, did you acquire this bottle of wine?" asked Tom.

"Tesco's?" suggested Ben.

Francis thought for a moment. "No," he said, as if he had just remembered something, "it didn't come from my cellar. Somebody gave it to me a week or two ago."

"Gave it to you?" asked Tom.

"Who?" asked Ben.

"I don't know who it was," said Francis after a pause. "Somebody left it on my doorstep. There was a tag attached to it ― _'from an admirer'_, it said." Tom looked at Ben and Ben looked at Tom. "I have so many admirers that I didn't think to find out who gave it to me. But I knew it was a good bottle of wine, so I decided to take it with me to celebrate our little holiday."

"And was it corked?" asked Ben.

"If you mean 'was the cork in it?', yes, it was. And the seal was in place. If there had been anything wrong with that bottle I would have spotted it," said Francis. "I'm a connoisseur of wine, as I told you."

"I see, sir," said Tom, feeling rather disheartened. "Well, thank you for your time, I think we're a little further forward, aren't we, Jones?" Tom got up and Ben followed suit.

"If there's anything else I can do to help, anything at all, please don't hesitate to get in touch with me," said Francis, also getting up. "I really do want to know what happened to that poor girl. It was a shock to me, I can tell you, when I got back to the guest house, to find that she had disappeared. And she doesn't have a car."

"No, sir," said Tom. "So the business about her changing her mind―"

"Well, she did say something like that. But she didn't say she was planning on going home. I've no idea why she left. I had a wretched holiday, worrying about her, I can tell you. Can you find your own way out?"

"Bastard," said Ben on the stairs. "Goes off on holiday while his sweetheart―"

"We still don't know why she died," said Tom quickly. "But I agree about the bastard bit."


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

.

"So, how far have we got?" asked Barnaby as soon as they got back to the station.

"The bottle of wine contains ricin … both Cavour and Gillian drink from it … only Gillian dies," said Jones.

"There you have the nub of the problem," said Barnaby. "Now, if we go back to motives..."

"Number One, Francis Cavour. Gillian threatens to reveal the fact that he is still practising illegally, so he kills her."

"Number Two, Avril Parkhurst," said Tom. "A jealous young lady there. Gillian stands in the way, as she sees it, of her relationship with Cavour."

Ben thought for a minute. "Sir, isn't it obvious that Francis Cavour must have been the intended target? There are many more people who would wish him dead than Gillian."

"For a start, there's Dr Chad Hunt. He is obsessed with putting Cavour behind bars because of his dodgy operations, and perhaps he sees him as a rival in the young-girl-pulling stakes too."

"And there's the bottle of wine that somebody gave him ― if you can believe what he says. And that's a big if, sir."

Tom started pacing up and down the office. "Anybody could have put that bottle of wine by his front door," he said, "expecting him to drink it."

"And how did the ricin get into the bottle in the first place?" asked Ben.

"I must ask Bullard about that," said Tom.

"Do you think Gillian went to Causton to try to find Cavour? Perhaps she called him on her mobile and he went home to meet her."

"The thought had occurred to me." Tom continued pacing up and down. "No, I don't buy it," he said eventually. "Even if she felt ill after drinking the ricin, and even if she somehow thought that Francis could 'cure' her, she was expecting him to return to the guest house."

"Yes, sir, but there's a lot of time unaccounted for. And Mr Cavour is not known for telling the police the truth."

"Indeed," said Tom. "However, he spent some of the time 'comforting' Avril, according to her. If you know what I mean."

"Oh, you mean he had sex with her," said Ben.

"And there's still the question of why Francis Cavour is fit as a fiddle when Gillian is dead. In any case, we shall find out more when we talk to that taxi driver this evening." Tom stopped pacing up and down. "What's the time now?" he asked.

"Four fifteen," said Ben.

"Damn. I said I would meet Joyce at four thirty at the tea-rooms in the High Street."

…

…

…

Tom found Joyce waiting outside the tea-rooms in the High Street. "Hello, love," he said. "Aren't we going in?"

"No, we're going shopping," said Joyce, "for material samples. You can have tea later."

Tom knew that he had been bamboozled by his wife, but he reluctantly followed her round from shop to shop in Causton. "Can't Amy provide the material?" he asked plaintively as he trudged along behind her.

"Amy runs a fancy-dress clothes shop. She doesn't sell material," said Joyce.

It was nearly five o'clock and Tom was hopeful that some of the shops might close soon, when his mobile buzzed. "Barnaby," he said. There was a long pause. "Are you sure, sir? Thank you very much for telling me." He pocketed his phone and said, "Sorry, Joyce, I've got to go back to the station."

Jones was filling in some forms when Barnaby literally raced in. "Cavour's just called me," he said. "He only just remembered. He thinks he didn't drink from the wine bottle after all. He says that he poured out two glasses, but that Avril called him at that moment and he rushed away."

"So that means..." began Jones.

"...That Gillian drank both glasses, and the rest of the bottle. Then she called a taxi and left."

…

…

…

Barton Cars occupied a cramped shop-front in Monks Barton Road, squeezed between a betting shop and a newsagent. Behind the counter sat an overweight girl, eating a large bag of chips, which smelt strongly of malt vinegar. She hardly looked up as Tom and Ben came in. "Where to?" she asked in a disinterested voice.

"I am Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby―"

"And I'm Detective Sergeant Jones," said Ben. "Police," he added firmly.

The girl now gave them her full attention. "Oh, was it you...?" she began.

"That's right," said Ben. "We talked. The driver who picked up a customer from Goodman's Land at one thirty in the morning, Thursday, week before last?"

"Oh, yeah." The girl leaned back in her chair and called out. "Tim! Can you come a minute?" A middle-aged man with receding hair and thick glasses pushed open the door behind the counter. "These gentlemen were asking about your fare from Goodman's Land week before last? In the middle of the night it was, Wednesday night. They're police," she added.

Tim gulped. "Do you mean the young lady who was very ill?" he asked.

"Yes," said Tom instantly. "Where did she go?"

"Somewhere in Causton, wasn't it?" interjected the girl.

"Yes, first of all she said she wanted to go to Causton General Hospital. I could see she wasn't very well."

"And?" Tom asked impatiently.

"But half-way there she changed her mind. Said she wanted to go to Morton Fendle instead."

"Did she give an address?"

"No, but I reckon it was where she lived. She directed me there. She was sick on the pavement as soon as she got out of my cab. Luckily she did get out first. I don't know if she'd been drinking...".

"Thank you very much," said Tom and both detectives left the premises immediately.

Tom looked at Ben and Ben looked at Tom. "How is that possible?" voiced Ben. "We'll have to talk to Martin Wrigley again."

"We will," said Tom. "But there are one or two things I still do not understand. I need to sleep on it. Shall we say nine o'clock tomorrow morning?"

…

…

…

Tom was woken at half past one by a phone call.

"It's Francis Cavour," said Chad Hunt down the phone. "He arrived in an ambulance ten minutes ago. He's in a bad way, Inspector. Multiple organ failure, and his breathing is very bad."

"I'll be right over," said Tom.

…

…

…

Dr Chad Hunt, wearing a white doctor's coat, met Barnaby in the Accident and Emergency department. "He's gone through to surgery now," he said, "but I do not hold out much hope. It looks like ricin poisoning. There's an injection mark near his heart."

"Ricin again," said Tom. "How do you get hold of it, if you happened to want to?"

"From the castor oil plant," said Chad. "The ricin is removed to make castor oil safe, if not palatable."

"Castor oil...," said Barnaby vaguely, thinking hard. "I suppose I can't talk to him―"

"No, Inspector, no chance of that," said Chad. "He'll be in intensive care for some time to come. Best to come back tomorrow morning."

Barnaby left the hospital as if he was in a daze.

…

…

…

It was a cold but sunny morning and Tom and Ben set out shortly after nine o'clock for Morton Fendle. Martin Wrigley met them at the door of his picturesque cottage. "How kind of you to think of me," he said. "Do come in."

They passed into the diminutive sitting-room, but instead of sitting down, as Jones did, Tom walked into the kitchen and looked around. There were a number of conventional kitchen gadgets on the work surfaces, but what caught Tom's eye was a curious contraption with a rotating handle and a small hopper on top. "What's that, sir?" he asked as Martin was standing behind him.

"It's a manual oil press," he said. "You can make linseed oil with that."

"Or castor oil?" asked Tom. "I noticed you had a very fine castor oil plant in your conservatory on our first visit." He smiled blandly and walked the few paces into the sitting-room. "Tell me, Mr Wrigley, when did your daughter arrive home on Wednesday night? Or should I say very early on Thursday morning?"

"Well ― she didn't come home," said Martin nervously. "She disappeared."

"Oh, come now, Mr Wrigley. She had drunk a whole bottle of wine, laced with ricin. Ricin, as you know very well, is extracted from the castor oil plant. My question is, how did you manage to get it into the bottle that you intended Francis Cavour to drink?"

Martin's weather-beaten face became contorted and he burst into loud sobs, collapsing onto the sofa. "My Gillian," he cried between sobs, "my beautiful daughter!"

"Dead, Mr Wrigley. Perhaps you shouldn't have protected her from the outside world so much." As the bereaved man continued weeping uncontrollably Tom adopted a softer tone. "It must be dreadful," he suggested, "to have that on your conscience." Ben produced a number of paper handkerchiefs which Martin gratefully accepted.

"She took..." he stuttered "...two days to die. It was horrible."

"I can imagine," said Ben.

"She was in terrible pain when she got home. I knew nothing could be done for her then. I did what I could...". He paused while his weeping, now virtually silent, continued for a while. He took a deep breath and said, "I kept her body until last Thursday night. Then I took her to The Queen's Arms, as you know."

"Yes, sir." After a moment, during which Martin composed himself somewhat, Tom asked gently, "Do you have any idea why your daughter chose to come here rather than go to the hospital, as she was so ill?"

"I can guess," said Martin. He looked directly into Tom's eyes and said, "You see, Inspector, she loved me, almost as much as I loved her. She must have known she was dying and wanted to do so in the arms of her father."

There was a short silence during which all three looked down, almost as if they were saying a prayer for Gillian. Then Ben asked, "It may seem trivial, sir ― but did she, by any chance, have a mobile phone on her?"

"Oh, yes, she did ― though I tried to stop her from having one," said Martin. "Too much of the modern world for me. I chucked it in the duckpond." He looked up at Tom. "I think..." he sniffed, "...that you are a very kind man."

"I can be," said Tom. "But murder is murder. And even now, as we speak, your intended victim is going through his death throes. Dr Hunt does not expect him to survive."

"Yes... yes... I see," said Martin, dabbing his eyes. "But he deserved to die. Not my lovely daughter," and he burst out into a wail again.

"I cannot condone any murder," said Tom gently, "however vile the victim is."

"Mr Wrigley," began Ben, as soon as he had quietened down, "can you tell us ― just for the record ― how you got the ricin into the wine bottle?"

"Oh," said Martin half-smiling, "that was easy. I go to the hospital quite often, you see, for blood tests."

"Yes, sir," said Tom.

"The nurses aren't always that careful about leaving syringes lying around at the phlebotomy department. I was sure that one wouldn't be missed."

"And you were sure that Cavour would not notice a tiny pin-prick at the top of the seal," suggested Ben. Martin nodded. "How about this latest incident ― how did you manage to inject Cavour with ricin?"

Martin gave his half-smile again. "When I said I had never met Cavour, that wasn't strictly true," he said. "I knew where he lived alright. So I went up there last night and broke in through one of the downstairs windows. I took a pair of pliers with me, which did for his burglar alarm. Then I crept upstairs and found him asleep, as I hoped he would be. I put a pillow over his face and sat on him so that he wouldn't thrash about too much. I don't know if he recognized me as I escaped, even though I was disguised ― he probably did. It doesn't matter now. He'll soon be in Hell, where he belongs."

…

…

…

"How's it going?" asked Tom, popping his head round the door of the green room at The Playhouse later that afternoon.

"Dad!" said Cully, who was alone with Joyce, giving her opinion as to the various swatches of material that Joyce had produced, "this is a pleasant surprise."

"That's because my case is over," said Tom happily.

"Who was it?" demanded Joyce. "Oh, come on, Tom, you can't keep it a secret."

"I fear that you may have to look for another leading man," said Tom.

"You don't mean ― it can't be―"

"I'm afraid so. Martin Wrigley."

"But it was his daughter who was killed!" exclaimed Joyce. "Surely he didn't kill his own daughter?"

"He did," said Tom. "By accident. He meant to kill Francis Cavour, but she drank the poison that was intended for him."

"Didn't you say that he was over-protective of his daughter, Mum?" asked Cully.

"Yes, didn't want her to grow up, I think," said Joyce. "At least, that's what Amy said. Where was she found, Tom?"

"In a black bin liner in a refuse collection bin."

"_Eeew_," said Joyce, shuddering.

"You know, it's quite uncanny," said Cully. "Have you ever heard of _Rigoletto_, Dad?"

"Heard of it? I've heard it too, several times. Why?"

"Well, Verdi based his opera on the play by Victor Hugo which we're doing now. In the opera Rigoletto, who's over-protective of his daughter, kills her by mistake, after she has been seduced by the Duke of Mantua, who is a frightful Lothario. He meant to kill him, but she dies in his place. And guess where she ends up?"

"Her body is stuffed into a sack," said Tom. "I know the opera, Cully, and can even sing some of the songs from it."

"No, Dad ― don't," said Cully, as her father gave every indication of being about to launch into song.

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_**If you have enjoyed this little story, or have constructive criticisms to make, please be good enough to leave a Review ― thanks!**_


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